Bedlam! Mystery of the Deluded Detective
by LuvvyDuck
Summary: Submitted here till they have a category for my favorite hound. Inspired by the works of A.C. Doyle and other stuff. THIS STORY IS SOON TO BE REMOVED. DRAFT WILL BE SAVED FOR FUTURE USE.
1. Default Chapter

Bedlam! The Mystery   
of the Deluded Detective

A Sherlock Hound (Meitantei Holmes) Pastiche  
by E. Grimes  
  
Adapted from The Dying Detective by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  
(both Canonical and Granada Television version)  
Inspired by "The Deranged Detective" (TV's Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century)  


© 2003 by E. Grimes. Please do not use this manuscript in any way without author's written permission. 

* * *

(Author's Note: The main character is called 'Sherlock Hound' in the subtitle to avoid confusion   
with the Canonical Sherlock Holmes. However, the name Holmes is used in the story thereafter.)  


"We all go a little mad sometimes."  
~Norman Bates, Psycho

Part I

THERE WERE many times when I felt sorry for our young landlady, Mrs. Mary Hudson. Besides having   
been widowed so early in her marriage, she had the many worries and hardships that my friend Sherlock  
Holmes and I must surely have caused her. Though I felt that Holmes was the greater culprit---his odd   
little habits, his coming and going at all hours, and his curious (and often ill-smelling) experiments would   
have strained the nerves of even the hardiest person. The perils that his profession attracted, not to mention  
the strange and often unsavory characters that showed up at our doorstep, must have seemed even more   
harrowing to our poor housekeeper.  
  
Our neighbours often said that Holmes must be the worst tenant in all of London; but surprisingly, Mrs.   
Hudson never complained. On the contrary, she was deeply devoted to him and his work, and seemed  
genuinely happy to have us both sharing her home. Perhaps my friend himself worried about trying Mrs.   
Hudson's patience, since he paid her handsomely for his lodgings---and could long since have owned the  
property during the time I lived with him. 

On my part, I was most fond of the dear young lady; her pretty face and sweet smile were as great a joy   
in my life as the splendid meals she prepared. Naturally I felt a deep sense of chivalry towards her, and   
would have done anything to please her.

However, Holmes' behaviour toward Mrs. Hudson was quite mystifying. Certainly he was gracious to her,   
but was typically so with any female---young or old. He had never married; whether he had ever loved at   
all was a mystery even to me. Moreover, he showed no outward sign of affection for Mrs. Hudson (at least,  
none that I could notice). Yet he had the good sense to enjoy her excellent cooking, and at times even insisted  
that she join us at table. And for all his seeming indifference to her, Holmes was staunchly protective of our  
attractive housekeeper. He was certainly as concerned for her as I was when she was once abducted by our   
enemy, Professor James Moriarty. Though Moriarty never harmed her and even released her, it was an   
unpleasant business that we would long remember.  
  
There were times, however, when I suspected that Holmes' feelings toward Mrs. Hudson were of the finer  
sort, though he would have stoutly denied it. For I had become aware of certain mannerisms of his in regard  
to our landlady: discreet glances in her direction, that suddenly shifted when she turned to him; extra little   
shows of kindness; and a singular possessiveness that hinted at jealousy when any other man paid attention   
to her. I was no exception, as I would unhappily discover. Often, if I tried to help Mrs. Hudson in her kitchen  
or her garden, then Holmes---whom I had thought was occupied elsewhere---would suddenly make his presence  
known and abruptly interrupt.

It was most strange that my friend would behave so with the young woman, while paying her little attention   
otherwise. The only conclusion I could draw was since he had lived with Mrs. Hudson first, he felt that in a   
sense she belonged to him alone---if only to ignore. 

It was but another part of the great mystery that was Sherlock Holmes. Yet for all its complications, I was   
grateful for our friendship and felt most fortunate to be working at my partner's side---and though he only   
rarely said so, I knew that he felt the same about me.

But one day, a peculiar and frightful incident came to Baker Street that would sorely try both Mrs. Hudson  
and myself. It all began with an equally strange occurence: a case involving a young man named Victor Savage...

~~~~~~~

It was in the beginning of November 1904, on a morning that at first promised to be uneventful. Holmes and I   
were sitting at the table, I with THE LONDON TIMES and Holmes with his pipe. As usual, Mrs. Hudson had  
prepared a marvelous breakfast, and I was happily full and at peace with the world.

"You shouldn't have gone to such trouble, my dear," I told her kindly as she poured more coffee. 

"But you and Mr. Holmes get so hungry in the winter time," she replied, smiling. "And besides, I enjoy   
cooking for you two. I know how much you boys appreciate it."

"Most assuredly!" I replied, giving her my most charming smile and a defiant glance at Holmes, who was   
eyeing me dubiously.

We had scarce finished our coffee when the doorbell rang downstairs. Holmes of course was hoping it would   
be another case, though I would not have minded spending the day lounging about with my newspaper. But I   
cast that small concern to the winds when Mrs. Hudson came to our door with an anxious face.

"Mr. Holmes?" she said softly. "A Mrs. Savage wishes to speak to you...she's most upset."

Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise, but nodded. "Show her in, please, Mrs. Hudson."

In walked an attractive young woman with chestnut hair, and handsomely dressed. With her were her two   
small children, a boy and a girl. Obviously the woman had been crying; her son and daugher were sad and   
bewildered, yet their faces lit up when they recognised Mr. Holmes and myself.

"Mr. Holmes," said their mother, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, "I believe you remember  
me? I am Mrs. Victor Savage. I came here because I desperately need your help."

Mr. Savage was a wealthy young merchant who owned a modest estate out in the countryside. We  
knew him to be a pleasant sort, as were his wife and children; we had, in fact, recently attended a   
dinner party at his residence. However, he had not been seen around London for some days, and   
Holmes had often voiced his suspicions about the young man's sudden absence.

"You've come to the right place, Mrs. Savage," he said pleasantly. "Mrs. Hudson, might I trouble you  
to bring our guest some tea? And I think, with their mother's kind permission, it would be best to take   
the children downstairs with you...perhaps they'd enjoy some of your cocoa?" he finished, smiling at   
our housekeeper.

Mrs. Hudson understood the situation. "Of course, Mr. Holmes."

"That would be very nice, Mrs. Hudson...thank you. Go with the nice lady, children," Mrs. Savage said  
to them gently. "Mummy will be back down shortly..."

"Mummy," the little girl asked, "what's wrong with Daddy? Why can't he come home now?"

Mrs. Savage bit her lip. "Daddy is very sick, Therese," she explained gently. "Run along, now..."

The minute she was alone with us, the young woman gazed at us in despair. "And now you know," she   
said, her voice halting. "Poor Victor has been strangely ill these past few days! He's in the hospital..."

Holmes frowned. "But why didn't you tell us before now, Mrs. Savage?"

The merchant's wife shook her head in misery. "I saw no reason to trouble you two about it...that is, until now."   
With a glance toward the door, she continued in a low, but anguished voice: "It was well that you sent Robby   
and Therese downstairs. I'd rather they didn't hear this---they've been through enough already.

"It all started when Victor received a visit last month from Mr. Colverton Smith, his uncle. You might   
remember, Mr. Holmes---you and Dr. Watson met him a fortnight ago, at our dinner party?"

Holmes and I both nodded. "Though we only made a brief acquaintance," my friend replied. "Your uncle  
seemed rather intent on keeping to himself."

"He was often that way around strangers," explained Mrs. Savage. "But he seemed a nice enough fellow,   
though I thought it odd that he decided out of the blue to come stay with us---after no word from him   
for years. 

"But as the days passed, Uncle Colverton began spending more time alone than usual. He professes to  
be a botany expert...he has been studying a good deal on tropical plants, and often did experiments with  
them in his room..."

"In what manner, Mrs. Savage?"

"I wasn't sure exactly, but he said it had to do with plant extracts, and their properties. He didn't discuss   
his work much..."

"Quite odd, indeed," I observed. 

The woman took a sip of tea, then resumed her story. "In spite of Uncle's strange behaviour, Mr.Holmes,  
I had no unfriendly thoughts or feelings toward him---until just three days ago...

"That day, my husband had some business matters to attend to in the city. Uncle was most insistent upon  
going with him; I was surprised, for he seldom involved himself in Victor's business matters. But Victor  
seemed to think nothing of it---he was even grateful to have his uncle's company.

"They were out until late that evening, however, and it worried me a great deal. When they finally returned,   
along half-past seven, Uncle Colverton explained that he and Victor had stopped at a tavern to have a glass   
of wine. I was very annoyed at him for keeping my husband out so late, but Uncle apologised so graciously   
that I quickly forgave him. Then we had our dinner, and I thought no more of the matter until later that   
night---"

Here, Mrs. Savage's voice broke, and fresh tears streamed down her face. Obviously, the rest of her  
story would be most agonising to tell.

"Are you all right, my dear?" I asked her kindly, taking her hand. 

She did not reply, but the look of anguish in her eyes gave us the answer. Holmes leaned forward until his   
eyes met hers.  
  
"I know this won't be easy," he said in a low voice, "but if we are to help you in any way, you must  
tell us everything." 

His kindly gaze seemed to have a calming effect on Mrs. Savage. She nodded weakly, then wiped her eyes  
and continued.

"Shortly after we had retired---about ten o'clock---my husband awoke me with his screams. He was holding  
his head and crying with terrible pain. Nothing I did for him seemed to help, and the children and I were quite  
frightened. Finally, I called Dr. Hollingsworth---" she gave me an apologetic glance---"he lives just up the way  
from us, Dr. Watson, otherwise I would surely have called you."

I smiled gently and told her to think nothing of it. "Did he find out the trouble?"

"No, he didn't," she replied, as yet bewildered. "He had no idea what was wrong with Victor. But suddenly,   
the strange pains went away, as mysteriously as they came. Victor calmed down, and we hoped that was the   
end of it.

"But it was only the beginning, Mr. Holmes," she explained to my friend, her voice quavering. "By morning,  
Victor had changed for the worse---and we put him in..." Mrs. Savage paused and stared down at the  
floor. "We---put him in...a hospital..."

Holmes lifted his eyebrow, taking note of the woman's hesitancy and embarrassed expression. "He's in an  
asylum, isn't he, Mrs. Savage?" he said quietly. "You musn't be ashamed to tell us---we are your friends."

Mrs. Savage nodded painfully. "Yes...yes! My poor husband---he'd gone mad, Mr. Holmes! He had fits   
of laughing and crying, and seemed afraid of everything. He wouldn't eat or drink a thing. Then the pains  
in his head came back, worse than ever--and he would hold his head and fall to the floor, crying that it hurt.   
We finally had to call the asylum---" she stared up at us in agonized disbelief---"Mr. Holmes, they dragged   
poor Victor out to their carriage, in a strait jacket!" 

The memory of her husband's final humiliation was the crowning blow for the unfortunate woman. She   
collapsed onto the cushions of the settee and sobbed, while we consoled her as best we could. I gave  
her a glass of brandy, as Holmes said to her gently:

"Good lady, we understand what an ordeal you've been through. But for your husband's sake and that of   
your children, please try to bear up."

Mrs. Savage finally collected herself, and sat back up, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "I'll try, Mr. Holmes,"   
she whispered. 

"Mrs. Savage," Holmes continued, "you said that you harboured no ill feelings toward Mr. Smith up  
until that time. Might I ask where he was when all this occured?"

"He was still in the house," she stammered, "at first."

My friend nodded gravely. "And why do you now suspect him?"

"Because of the way he behaved," Mrs. Savage answered darkly. "He seemed concerned enough when Victor   
first had his head pains; but when Dr. Hollingsworth came, Uncle Colverton looked quite worried---frightened,  
in fact---and he went off to his room. The next morning, when Victor's sickness became worse, Uncle didn't   
answer when I rapped at his door. When the maid went to clean his room, he was gone. His bed hadn't even  
been slept in---he must have left during the night. I've neither seen nor heard from him since."

"And so you've come to us on this matter," I added. "Your uncle's actions sound odd, indeed. But how could  
this explain Victor's sickness?"

Mrs. Savage shut her eyes and shook her head wearily. "I don't know. But I can't put Uncle's behaviour out  
of my mind. Dr. Watson, he's done something to Victor, he must have! I can't say how I know...yet somehow  
everything points to him. But why?? Why in Heaven's name would he harm his own nephew?"

Holmes listened quietly, puffing at his pipe; but his hard stare at the floor told me that the wheels of suspicion  
had begun to turn in his own mind as well.

"That, and more, is what we intend to find out," Holmes answered firmly. "There is much work to be done  
at present; but I can promise you, Mrs. Savage, that we will do our best to help you and your family."

"We shall indeed," I added.

The young woman gave a weak but grateful smile as she arose. "Then for the first time in days, I feel  
that there's hope," she said brokenly. "Thank you both, sirs...for your help, and your kindness. And   
thank Mrs. Hudson also..."

After Mrs. Savage's coach had departed, Holmes paced around the sitting room, deep in thought. 

"Do you agree with Mrs. Savage, Holmes---that Mr. Smith might be at fault for this somehow?" I   
asked as I watched him.

"I can't say as yet," he replied, putting on his cape and deerstalker. "Meanwhile, we shall pay a visit  
to the unfortunate Mr. Savage."

But as I followed him out to the Benz and we drove off, the grim and determined look on Holmes' face  
gave me the answer.

End Part I

  
  



	2. Part II

Bedlam! The Mystery   
of the Deluded Detective

A Sherlock Hound (Meitantei Holmes) Pastiche  
by E. Grimes  
  
Adapted from The Dying Detective by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  
(both Canonical and Granada Television version)  
Inspired by "The Deranged Detective" (TV's Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century)  


© 2003 by E. Grimes. Please do not use this manuscript in any way without author's written permission. 

* * *

Part II

IT WAS BUT a short journey to the sanitarium housing the stricken Victor Savage. It was situated just outside  
of London; but the lushly wooded area surrounding the building well resembled the English countryside. I wondered   
privately if that was for the benefit of the patients, or to make the asylum appear more innoccuous to outsiders. Of   
one thing Holmes and I were certain: the peaceful beauty of the landscape was stark contrast to what awaited us   
once we entered the gates, for what lay within was the nearest I have ever been to Hell.

Dr. Joseph Shackleford, the director and head physician, was there to greet us. With an attendant present, he   
led us down the hall to the patients' quarters. Although the building was fairly well-kept, we had to press our   
handkerchiefs to our noses against the unpleasant odors emanating from the rooms. But we could not cover   
our ears against the shrill screams and maniacal babblings that surrounded us, nor shield our eyes from the   
wretched sight of the inmates tied to their beds or in strait jackets, or listlessly wandering the halls--lost in  
worlds known but to themselves.

A piteous scene met our eyes when we reached Mr. Savage's room. The poor young man was sitting on the   
edge of his bed, swaying back and forth like some village idiot, muttering all sorts of nonsense. Occassionally   
he would burst out in hysterical laughter, sometimes to follow it with a fit of weeping.

"Mr. Savage?" Holmes began in his most gentle tone. "We've come to visit you, sir...you remember us, don't  
you?"

Mr. Savage stopped his swaying and stared up at us.

"Mr. Holmes? And Dr. Watson?" he asked, obviously surprised.

"Why, yes," I answered. That he recognised us seemed to be a hopeful sign. "And how are you feeling, Mr.   
Savage?"

The young man broke into an imbecilic grin. "How am I feeling...how am I feeling? With my hands, my good  
fellow!" he replied in a delirious voice, laughing until he was in tears.

"That's...all very nice," Holmes said uncomfortably. "But you do know who we are, my friend?"

" 'My friend' ?? Am I your friend? But of course I am. You seem such nice gentlemen! Ah, Holmes and   
Watson...Watson and Holmes...sounds rather musical, doesn't it?" Savage said gleefully. "So the great  
Mr. Holmes has come to visit me? How delightful!" He turned to me and grasped my hand. "Might he  
stay for tea, dear Nanny?" he said to me eagerly, obviously forgetful of whom I was. I looked up in   
alarm at Holmes, who seemed just as perplexed as I was.

Then suddenly, Savage's entire demeanor changed. He released my hand as though it were on fire and  
glared at us both suspiciously. What had been childish delirium suddenly transformed itself into hostile  
distrust.

"I say, who are you people??" he demanded angrily. "Holmes and Watson, you say? You lie, sirs!   
You're the devil's own fallen angels, sent to torment me!"

"No, no, Mr. Savage--that's not true!" I stammered. 

"Don't touch me!!!" he screamed at Holmes, who had tried to take his arm in an effort to calm him down.   
Grabbing his pillow, he began to beat at us, screaming and cursing.

"Mr. Savage, pray calm yourself," Holmes insisted. "We're only here to help you!"

"You're lying---you're lying!!!" screeched Mr. Savage in terror. "You want to take me away. You want  
to drag me into the fires of Hell! You'll not have me, I tell you!"

Then just as quickly, his anger became sheer terror. "Oh, God, help me--help me!!!" he shrieked. "Don't   
you see the dragons coming through the walls--don't you feel their flames??" 

He leapt up and ran to the nearest wall, clawing at it madly as though in an effort to climb it, his screams of  
horror chilling us to our very bones. As two attendants rushed into the room, followed by Dr. Shackleford,  
Holmes took my arm and led me away from the unfortunate young man. 

"I believe we've seen quite enough, Watson," he said, observing Savage's actions in great concern. By now   
the poor fellow had stopped his tirade; but all of a sudden he grabbed his head and fell to the floor, writhing   
in agony.

"My head, my head..." he wailed pitifully as two attendants rushed in. "Oh, merciful God, will my torment  
never end???"

Holmes and I looked on in dismay as the attendants tied Mr. Savage down to his bed. The very walls   
seemed to shake with his piercing screams, until they abruptly ceased and he lay staring at the ceiling,   
his eyes like those of a lost child.

"Can you do anything at all for him?" I asked Dr. Shackleford, who sighed heavily.

"If only I knew more about this illness," he replied, "I might know what treatment to prescribe. But I've no   
idea what brought this about; it's something most bizarre."

"Mrs. Savage has told us that her husband was quite sound up until these sudden attacks," Holmes told him.

"Well...I know you to be an astute detective, sir," the doctor said. "I've read of your many cases. If you can  
possibly find what brought on Mr. Savage's illness, please get word to me quickly. This is one of the strangest  
incidents in my career, Mr. Holmes, and I shall be grateful for any help you can give me."

Holmes nodded; then we both shook Dr. Shackleford's hand and left, with Savage's anguished cries echoing   
in our minds--and his sad state weighing upon our spirits. We did not yet know that his family's troubles had  
only begun...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was no surprise that Holmes did not sleep that night. My own sleep was fitful at best, for I could not shut  
out the images from my mind of poor Mr. Savage and that terrible asylum. I finally left my bed and started  
downstairs toward the kitchen, feeling some hot milk might soothe me back to sleep. A dash of brandy in  
it would do no harm, either...

It was in passing by Holmes' room that I discovered him awake as well, for light from a lamp flickered   
under his door and I could hear rustling of papers. I gently rapped at the door, hoping not to disturb him.

"Holmes?" I whispered. "I'm fetching myself a bit of milk--might I bring you anything?"

"No thank you, Watson," was his weary and rather testy reply. "I'm quite busy, and should like not to be   
disturbed."

It was needless to ask if he would get any rest; I knew that Holmes would torment himself over the case  
until the answer finally came to light. 

"Very well, Holmes..."

"Wait." His door quickly opened before I had gone five paces, and Holmes handed out a thick book.

"I should like you to read this, Watson, your being a physician. It is a study of mental diseases; let me know  
what you think of it in the morning."

"But Holmes, I'm merely a surgeon," I protested. "This is far from my expertise..."

"Well, if nothing else, it'll put you to sleep," he replied, with a slight smile. "I heard you tossing about in your  
room."

With a tired grunt, I took the volume and went downstairs. Apparently, this would be a sleepless night for us  
all, for Mrs. Hudson soon joined me in the kitchen. At least, I thought with a smile, I would have the pleasure  
of our housekeeper's company--and without Holmes' interruption for once.

"Mr. Holmes isn't sleeping at all, is he?" she asked, quite worried.

"No," I answered with a slight chuckle. "But we both know how he is."

"And he didn't eat a bite at dinner," Mrs. Hudson added unhappily. "This case is troubling him so...won't he  
at least have a cup of tea, or some milk? He simply must keep his strength up."

"It'd be best to leave him alone, my dear," I suggested gently. "He'll be quite all right." 

In the meantime, I had my own "studies" to pursue. I returned to my room with the book and read it while   
drinking my milk; but the only good it did was to put me to sleep. I otherwise found no answer to our questions   
about Mr. Savage, and hoped that Holmes had been more fortunate.

I found him in the sitting room the following morning, huddled up amid a pile of books and quite exhausted. I  
glanced at the many volumes and saw that they all dealt with botany and herbology, the very hobbies dear to  
Colverton Smith. But what might that have had to do with Victor Savage's sudden madness? And why had  
Holmes spent the night reading on botany--rather than mental diseases, as might be expected? Yet, though   
I could never deduce things even half as quickly as my friend, something from my earlier medical studies   
now came back to me.

I remembered reading that there were substances derived from certain animals and plants that could bring  
about madness. That Holmes had concentrated his research on plants suggested that he suspected Savage's  
illness had come from a botanical source. Smith professed to be an expert botanist. I now wondered: had   
poor Victor Savage's own uncle given him something to drive him mad? If so, what had inspired Smith to   
commit such a monstrous act?

As I sat across from Holmes, darkly pondering the matter, my friend opened his eyes and gave me a   
knowing glance.

"And your own conclusions, my dear Watson?" 

His voice startled me out of my thoughts; it was as if Holmes had read my mind. But I quickly collected  
myself when I saw Mrs. Hudson bringing in our breakfast.

"If you wouldn't mind, Holmes," I said eagerly, "I'd rather not reveal my findings on an empty stomach."

Later, as we sat at table, I told Holmes what I myself had suspected.

"I quickly deduced as much, Watson," Holmes replied quietly. "Your expression, and having seen my   
latest subject of study, told me that you believe the same thing I do, old friend: that Colverton Smith  
has turned to his profession for the most malevolent of purposes--thus administering, by whatever   
means, a plant substance to Mr. Savage in order to render him insane."

"But why, Holmes? Smith must be quite mad himself to do such a dreadful thing to his own nephew!"

"Perhaps. But it is very likely that he is of sound mind and well aware of his actions--for his committing  
them was merely for his own satisfaction.

"Three things can motivate one to harm his own flesh and blood, Watson: jealousy, hatred or greed.  
Moreover, Mrs. Savage informed us that her husband had not seen his uncle for many years. That   
Smith would so suddenly and mysteriously return to his family and go to such lengths to attain the  
Savages' good graces, implies to me that he already had malicious intentions toward his nephew.  
It now remains for us to discover the means, the substance, and finally: the reason. And with that  
in mind, my good Doctor, we shall pay a visit to Mr. Savage's estate."

END PART II

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